It was a significant part of my upbringing. In fact, I blame genes and Konami for most my life’s problems. It’s probably why I cheat at sports so often.

There’s a dusty console sitting in the closet of my apartment. It hasn’t been played in months, but this 11-year-old Nintendo 64 has seen its share of action. On it, my record is about 143,256-9. The loss column is still in single digits.

My game of choice is the same as everyone else’s: Mario Kart 64. Everyone had Mario Kart growing up. Talk to any Midwestern kid on campus and you’ll have two things in common right away — hating the weather and playing Mario Kart.

It’s not that I have a particular talent for Mario Kart; I was much better at other, less popular games. But whenever I had friends over, we’d only play one game. Those years of practice added up. And the weird thing is, my experience is nowhere near unique.

Think about it. You or someone who lived close to you owned Mario Kart. I’d be willing to bet eight out of 10 of your friends know how to race. In fact, I’d recommend losing the other two friends just to make sure everybody’s on the same page.

Even casual video game fans have played Mario Kart and, not only that, they think they’re the greatest at it. Man or woman, all Mario Kart players considers themselves the best. After all, the game is incredibly easy to learn. The instructions practically say, “Just hold A, and if you can’t figure the rest out then you have bigger problems.”

Being able to play Mario Kart has become a standard for college-aged kids. To admit you’re bad at it is like admitting you’re a bad driver. It’s almost become a matter of pride.

Now, I’m not Asher Roth pandering for popularity. There’s a reason I’m saying all this.

I’ve been to many parties during my time at MSU. There almost always seems to be a point in the night when somebody turns on the old Nintendo 64 and a game starts up. As soon as they hear that music, almost everyone in the room will start telling everyone else how good they are at this game. I never speak up.

I wait a few rounds and make my way to a controller. Play it low-key, of course.

It’s fun, really. I like playing dumb and asking, “So Z is fire, right?” Everyone gets a little more confident.

But here’s what always happens: I get a boost at the starting line, steal first place and turn the course into a maze of banana peels and upside down question mark boxes. Then I win. Whether I sneak by at the finish line, or I’m lapping someone as the race ends, I win. I don’t lose.

And I won’t lose.

I’ve been here for two years, and I have yet to lose on this campus. It’s like nobody has ever heard of saving a lightning bolt. I’m ready to declare myself the best Mario Kart player on this campus. Taking time into consideration, that could put me in the running for the best Mario Kart player in school history.

Now all of this might seem arrogant to you, and you’re right. It is. But I can be arrogant about something that has absolutely no value.

Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe I haven’t seen the best this campus has to offer. There’s an easy way to settle this.

Challenge me.

Take a look at that mug shot at the top left of this column. Remember that face — the goofy smile and everything.

If you ever recognize that face at a party and you want to see what it looks like when sad, challenge me. Nothing would please me more than meeting the person who’s better than me at this game. Spartan soldiers grew up waiting to fight the person good enough to kill them, and I guess I’m the same way. And if that doesn’t give you an indication of how overly serious I am about this, then nothing will.

But before you call me out, look at that picture again. I mean, really look at it. He looks like the kind of person who would be really good at video games, doesn’t he?